23 degrees F and snowing

Hard to find a poem about snow that doesn’t take us to a little headstone, as does James Russell Lowell’s or a thwarted love, as does Thomas Hardy’s. I am cold and disgruntled, but not morose, so here’s something more in line with how I feel.

Convention

THE SNOW is lying very deep.
My house is sheltered from the blast.
I hear each muffled step outside,
I hear each voice go past.

But I’ll not venture in the drift
Out of this bright security,
Till enough footsteps come and go
To make a path for me.

—Agnes Lee. Rittenhouse, Jessie B., ed. The Second Book of Modern Verse. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1920; New York: Bartleby.com, 2002.

And, oh my, it’s E.D.’s birthday. Here is a link to a Dickinson poem that may refer to winds such as we have today. Certainly I feel too fragile for 20 mph winds at 23 degrees F.

Possibly related posts:

An invocation

William Wordsworth

Harriet O. Leach

Sexy black pumps and muddy hiking boots

Time flies

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